It’s been 57 days since we, and by we I mean a whole lots of assholes that aren’t me, elected a cosmic level shit-bag named Donald J. Trump. It took me 23 days to actually say or type his name without wanting to vomit, but even now I feel my dinner announcing it’s intent to depart.

Dear reader (singular of reader in this case, is literal), I wish to apologize for my very relaxed approach to updating this blog, but I’m fucking lazy. I live the romanticized lifestyle of a writer, as set forth by Charles Bukowski in that I drink too much and act like an ass to those who don’t know as much as I do, but without actually writing anything, which is, I admit, a shortcoming of mine. So I hope you’ll forgive me enough to read my belated rant on the recent election. It’s not exactly recent depending on your timescale. Timescale is everything. In geological time it’s mind-crushingly recent. Let’s go with too-sad-to-be-functional-enough-to-cry time, which is about two months.

I was working on election night as a strip club DJ. I’m a strip club DJ. I may have mentioned this in my previous posts, I don’t remember. But let me break down what it means to be a strip club DJ. If you work at a shitty club, everything sucks, so don’t do that. If you work at a good club, which I do, it’s just a great job that ends with naked women handing you money. I’ll repeat that in all caps for those in the cheap seats. NAKED WOMEN HAND YOU MONEY! My point is, being a DJ at a strip club is mostly awesome. Mostly. Sometimes you’re at work and you witness the crushing defeat of your country. I don’t mean the disappointment I felt in 2000, or in 2004. That sucked, but G.W. Bush, for all his faults, had good intentions and thought he was doing what was right. He was also guided by evil cunts. No, my dear friends, we are witnessing the end of the very ideals that inspired this country. Rule number one for being a strip club DJ is that you have to sound happy on the mic at all times. And I had to hit the mic and announce the next lovely entertainer to stage with the same naive enthusiasm I had when it was 11/07, even though I was dying inside.

The 62 million people who voted for Donald Trump didn’t just vote for a Republican, they voted for the end of democracy. I don’t mean this as hyperbole. I don’t mean this as just a raging liberal shouting at a wall. I literally mean that there were 62 million people who would have been happier with a Putin over an Obama. While it might appear that the last Russian election itself wasn’t tampered with despite a suspiciously large margin (65%), one might argue that the brazen killing of journalists and political opponents taints the democratic process. And our president-to-be loves this guy. Let that sink in for a moment while to reread some of the comments El Douché has made about journalists over the last year or so. What happens to a man who sits up at 3:00AM tweeting cruel lies about a woman that used to work for him when you give him the power of the American presidency? This is a man who has spent his entire life trying to be the most special little boy in the world that everyone loves. He’ll soon have the power to send our troops to places to kill people.

In the aforementioned pursuits of Donald J. Trump, or El Douché as I really hope will become his new nickname, he’s managed to get half the voting populace on board with little more than an “R” next to his name, lofty promises backed up by false statements, and the coveted tag of “not liberal,” regardless of what “liberal” might mean at any given moment. This is very important. Not liberal. Sticking to to the liberals. It’s important because liberal doesn’t actually have a meaning insofar as Trump voters are concerned.

Liberal has come to mean, in a shockingly short span, anything that is against Donald Trump (the right has spent decades turning liberal into a dirty word, we now know that the ideology behind the word is irrelevant). He got his initial boost by sticking it to the liberals. Early on this meant anyone looking at this outrageous goon and saying “You’re kidding, right?” That’s all it took for the Republican base, all lunatics, to latch on. The next thing we knew, Donald Trump was the choice of the Republican party because the crazies had taken over the party. Any hope we had rested with the party itself taking a stand, but that was not to be. Donald Trump insulted the wife of Ted Cruz, and Cruz, while appearing to briefly take a stand, eventually caved like the servile, boot-licking supplicant that he is, to the awesome might of the right wing machine. For all the useless ideas we on the left have for doing away with toxic masculinity, I ask you, what do you think of a man who abandoned his respect for his wife so quickly? Not THE respect OF his wife, HIS respect FOR his wife. Why are we not talking incessantly about this? As an enlightened, liberal, feminist man, I would still knock a motherfucker’s lights out for speaking to my lady the way Trump has about Mrs. Cruz. I wrote a whole article about punching a motherfucker in his stupid goddamn face. And the GOP are supposed to be the tough guys.

Why are we not talking incessantly about this? At the age of 40, I’ve run in every level of liberal to ultra left wing circles, and some might talk the talk, but I have yet to meet anyone who doesn’t swoon over a man punching a motherfucker in his stupid goddamn face over an insult to his wife. The abject cowardice of Ted Cruz should be the top story for everyone on the left, right and anyone else with a sense of decency. No one, for the rest of time, should ever address Mr. Cruz without first mentioning his staggering failure as a man for not standing up for his woman. Some might attack Hillary Clinton for Bill’s many transgressions and likely assaults. But at least she had the stones to stand up for her man. Cruz has no stones and no moral high ground. He has, like everyone else on the so called “moral majority” given up any and all morals for loyalty to a party that no longer has any. Cruz is the worst of them, but the GOP is overflowing with sniveling cowards, willing to cast aside their convictions in favor of being in power.

Trump’s candidacy and subsequent presidency is an attack only one enemy, an enemy with one name, but countless possible, but otherwise meaningless meanings. Liberalism. Liberalism, while once being the basis for the entire goddamn country, has ceased to mean anything beyond simple reason and truth, and they will become public enemy number one in Trump’s America. Brace yourselves, my friends, because the reign of Kim Jong Trump is under way, and it’s all about to get worse.

There are ways we can all fight back. Call your elected officials relentlessly to get them to do what’s right. Donate to the ACLU, Planned Parenthood, NPR, and other organizations that are now under threat. Another lesser known tactic that I’ve taken to recently is to get on Twitter and call Donald Trump a cunt once a day. I’ve set a daily reminder on my phone. Every day, at 3:00PM, I get a notification that says “Call Donald Trump a cunt.” Staggeringly immature? Yes. Completely pointless? Probably. But I’ve been doing it for three weeks straight and it makes me smile every time. I know, I’m a 40 year old man who tweets “you’re a cunt” to the president elect of the United States of America every day, but he’s a 71 year old diminutive man-child who thinks vaccines cause autism. You’re all welcome to join in my hitherto one man crusade. Trump is a notoriously fragile little fella who gets all wound up when his tiny feelings are hurt, and if enough people start calling him a cunt on a daily basis, it will send him into on of his little tantrums.

Some of you didn’t believe me

I get that some folks will be apprehensive at first, but hear me out. The high ground approach hasn’t helped. We’re dealing with people who think calling someone a “cuck” is the most clever thing since “libtard.” You’d have a better time trying to explain astrophysics to a turd, but with a less pleasant smell. You’re not going to get through to these people with facts and intellectual discourse. And why would you want to? But you can, by taking the low ground, send that fat, jaundiced shit-bag into a heart attack inducing frenzy with a coordinated campaign of childish insults.

We’re not restricted to just text.

We libtards can’t be toppled by right wing goons like the rapist Donald Trump because we are still the keepers of hope, kindness (yeah, I know, the cunt thing), and most importantly, humor. We create the art and the science. We have Mark Twain and Tina Fey and Sarah Silverman and Neil Degrasse Tyson. They have Adolf Hitler and Mitch McConnell and Ted Nugent and Branson, Missouri. Oh, and Donald Trump, if you’re reading this, you’re a cunt.

Over the course of a man’s life, many of his actions seem downright silly in retrospect. Often times he doesn’t even know why he’s doing certain things even if they seem perfectly reasonable at the time. One such action was getting a Prince Albert when I was at the tender young age of 17. For those who might be unfamiliar with this particular piece of self-mutilation, a Prince Albert is a piercing that goes through the urethra and out the bottom of the penis.

It was during my punk rock days. Sporting a red mo-hawk which earned me the nickname Roosterboy(everyone, including myself, thought it was more clever than it actually was), wearing the same white jeans every day that had a hole so big I started to wear black thermals underneath lest my tender young business be exposed in front of God and everyone, and my tendency to stick things in my skin in an act of rebellion that was actually rather odd and offensive back then. I was quite the little non-conformist, if only because I lacked the sense of style to truly mimic other punks I knew. I would sport safety pins in my ears or eyebrows until my allergy to nickel caused an infection, go days or weeks without bathing, which greatly contributed to my piercing infections, and draw anarchy symbols on the side of my head in order to stick it to the man. So naturally, getting a cock piercing was only the next logical step in my never ending quest to be weird. There was the added bonus I had heard about: that it enhances sexual pleasure for women, and me, ever being the giver, jumped right on that shit.

So one beautiful yet worn out looking body piercer and a whole lot of pain later, I was sporting a fresh and bloody ring in my dong. I was given instructions on how to clean it, and told that I would have to wait seven days before having sex. This was a gross miscalculation on the part of the piercer. I left the body modification establishment and went on my merry way, spending the rest of the night bleeding profusely from my sore member. Later that evening, while laying next to my girlfriend, I got an erection. Needless to say, there would be blood. I left a stain on her jeans which she still has to this day(for some reason).

My girlfriend and I, lets call her Jennifer Connelly for the sake of her privacy, had not had sex at this point. We were just about ready when I made the choice to poke a hole in the head of my penis and coitus had to be delayed. So when the seven days were up, she and I got down to business in the typical romantic fashion of two teenagers, on the floor of my father’s living room while watching Aladdin with two of our friends sleeping on the couch. This beautiful act of love making was one of the most painful experiences I’ve ever been through. For one, she was so tight that it was like pushing a water balloon into a straw. Couple that with the fresh puncture wound, and well, you get the idea. We went through two condoms just trying to start. I later brought out the KY jelly to aid us and after what seemed like seconds, was able to achieve an orgasm… an unbearably painful orgasm. We decided we would wait two more weeks before trying again, got dressed and finished the movie.

Around six in the morning, when the searing agony in my pants had finally dulled to a throbbing ache, and with fatigue setting in, it was time for bed. I kissed Jennifer Connelly goodbye, she woke up her friend and went home. My friend Brian stayed with me at my house and slept in my bed next to me.

Fatigue can be a dangerous condition. If you work around heavy machinery, or operate a vehicle in this state, you can seriously jeopardize your life and the lives of those around you. Or, it can make you so loopy that you go to bed with your best friend and completely forget to pick up the condom wrappers and tube of KY Jelly you left on the floor of your father’s living room floor so that later, your father sees you and your friend walk out of your room in your underwear and puts two and two together without realizing there’s another number involved.

My father never asked. I simply picked everything up with him sitting right there and never bothered to explain myself. Part of me thought it was perhaps better to let him think I was experimenting with my sexual orientation than to bother with the real story. There were some very awkward moments afterwards and weeks later he told me that if there was anything I wanted to get off my chest, I should just keep it to myself. If he had any suspicions, he took them to his grave. I’m not sure who he told about it, but my uncle has asked me point blank, on a few occasions, if I’m gay.

Exec 2: Let’s have Doomsday in it even though it’s only the second movie with Superman.
Zach Snyder: Oh, speaking of Superman, let’s have Batman be in it. And have him in it more, but also, let’s make Superman more, I don’t know, Batmany? Like, you know how he was all dark and brooding like Batman in the last one, I’m going to do way more of that.
Exec 1: The feminists are up our asses by the way, so we need to have the obligatory chick hero. Which one should we have in the movie.
Exec 2: It literally doesn’t matter in the least.

After a period of throwing out female super hero names, three of which were Marvel characters and one was just a random girl’s name, they finally decide.

Exec 1: Fuck it, Wonder-Woman. What should we have her do?
Exex 2: Be there.
Exec 1: That’s it?
Exec 2: What else do we need? We already have Lois Lane looking like she’s trying to help in order to work her into situations where Superman needs to save her.
Zach Snyder: Gentlemen, I got it! Let’s have her be hot too.
Exec 1: There and hot! Zach, you’re a genius? Can we sneak in some side boob?
Zach Snyder: Better. Under-butt.
Exec 2: Okay looks like we got ourselves the making of a franchise. Should we give each one a movie and then do Justice League, or just awkwardly wrench the other heroes into this story in a way that makes no sense and drags out the already bloated plot?
Zach Snyder: The second one.
Exec 1: Brilliant. Zach, make it happen. We’re so lucky we snatched you up after you adapted that brilliant comic from the 1980’s gutted everything that made it great and puked it into the world. You really know how to cater to your corporate overlords. We said “less interesting social commentary and more tits and blue dick” and by god, Zach, you made it happen.
Exec 2: Damn right. So, Batman v Super Batman: Featuring hot lady-hero! Let’s make a fucking movie!

We’ve been kicking around the idea of doing a regular column where we shit all over something that is universally loved. The point isn’t exactly to get a knee-jerk reaction out … Continue reading Fuck the Pope

If you’ve ever found yourself asking “what does it mean to be a man in 2015?”, congratulations, you’ve lost your man card. That’s right, as a feminist male who strongly opposes outdated and useless gender-norms, I’m taking away your fucking man card. Why would I do this? Simple, it’s because there are two types of men who like to explore this question. The first category are men with beards and feathered hair and acoustic guitars who like to have workshops exploring masculinity, and these men are perfectly okay with hugging other men that they don’t fucking know. You know who you are and you can fuck right off with your talk of tantric sex and bullshit rituals that bring you closer to your inner man-beast or whatever. Eat all the dicks! Sorry, I just really don’t like being hugged by strangers. The second and more prominent group are far more idiotic, and that group is the men’s rights activists. While none of them have ever tried to hug me, I still get their bullshit polluting my Facebook feed every single day. That space is for depressingly unfunny memes made by conservatives and platitudes about how much people love their children that make me think they’re terrible parents. But I digress. The point is, both of these groups are annoying and aren’t fit to call themselves men. Since I’m not out to insult any other gender identity, I’ll call these people jellyfish.

I think there’s a federal law that says this picture must be in any article talking about masculinity.

Men’s rights activists, or meninists as they now like to be called (not a very creative bunch), or jellyfish as I have just dubbed them, believe that feminism is destroying the modern male, and that they, as men, are helpless against the onslaught of feminist idealism. For a group that idealizes strong old fashioned manly traits, they’re not off to a good start. Men, traditionally, are not supposed to be helpless against anything. These men cower at the thought that someone might call them an asshole. The ideal manly man will stand his ground if he believes what he’s doing is right. A friend of mine once said to me “it’s getting to the point where you can’t even be a man anymore.” I have no idea what this means. If he means that society is labeling as sexual assault formerly innocent “manly” things like groping the beer tub girl, then yes, he’s right, and that’s a good thing. I’ve asked him several times and he still hasn’t explained it to me. Interestingly enough, a few months after he said that to me, the UFC fighter and all around sack of shit Jonathan Koppenhaver, aka War Machine wrote something similar in his suicide note while in jail for aggravated assault against his ex-girlfriend. From the evidence presented to me, his complaint really seems to be on par with any other dominant group losing power to treat people like shit and get away with it. Can’t shout obscenities at women on the street, can’t slap my secretary’s ass, can’t tell my girlfriend I hope she gets raped by a pack of niggers (can’t even be racist, is this even America anymore?).

Anyway, as a man, please allow me to give you a quick rundown of the rules of being a masculine man in our first ever listicle.

#1. All men must have a beard, or not, do whatever you want, I’m not your mother.

Beard culture is getting out of hand. The appalling label “lumbersexual” makes me want to vomit glitter. For all their rugged posturing, they seem to spend a great deal of time primping their beards to look just right. Knock it off, you prancing ninnies! Grow a beard and then shut the fuck about it. I don’t want to know about how your beard collects panties. The only product your beard requires might be some dandruff shampoo, as I found out a few years ago. The beard trend needs to go away for so many reasons, not the least of which is that it devalues my laziness. Facial hair exists because we don’t like bothering to shave. When it comes down to it, I already have to brush my teeth and take a shit, how much of my morning should I have to give up?

No it doesn’t. I just covers up your weak chin. You seem like a good candidate for #4.

#2. Men must fuck a lot of women. Or men — if you’re gay — or transgender people. Goddamnit! Men should fuck a lot of whomever they like to fuck, or don’t, whatever.

Having a hard cock and fucking things with it is the the pinnacle of manhood. It always sounds like I’m bragging when I mention that I’ve had sex with a lot of women in my life, and I’m really not. I wouldn’t take it back, but neither is it a point of pride. It’s just a series of fun and not so fun things that have happened in my life. Either way, men, the ability to conquer strange has nothing to do with being manly. It has more to do with being noticed, being in the right place at the right time, and maybe eliciting some good laughs. You won’t believe how a well-timed fisting joke can lead to coitus. A friend of mine once asked me how to arouse a woman’s interest. I have no system so the only thing I could tell him was “just stand around being awesome until someone offers to fuck you.” If any of you, dear readers, have ever brought someone home from the bar, you know what I’m talking about. My point is, do whatever makes you happy. There’s almost no such thing as too many sexual partners provided you’re being safe. But there is absolutely such a thing as too few. It won’t make you less of a man, just less able to make an informed decision about a potential life partner.

#2.5. Sometimes women hook up with men that aren’t you and you have to deal with that.

Have you ever been to a cool party bar and looked at all the hot women flirting with meaty asshole dudes and wondered how those men are getting all the attention? Perhaps you found yourself getting angry. After all, you’re polite to women, cultured, intelligent, you’re a nice guy. Nice guy is code for boring. The whole Nice Guy thing has been talked about ad nauseum. There’s probably thousands of websites about Nice Guys. You should know by now that it’s not a good description. Women aren’t attracted to assholes, they’re attracted to men who are fun to be around. There tends to be some overlap. Or maybe they’re just looking to hook up with some looker with a six-pack. Women can be just as shallow as men. I know Kevin James movies would have you believe otherwise, but no, sometimes ladies just want to bang a hot guy. Recently, while watching the Republican debate, I thought about how how much I can’t stand Megyn Kelly’s politics, but I still wanted to jerk off all over her face. If you don’t think there’s a girl version of that impulse (run over there and make him open all my jars?), you need more female friends. If you were to hear my girlfriend talk about Channing Tatum, you’d faint like a southern belle. Anyway, the important thing to remember is that none of this has anything to do with you. Most likely, you’re in the wrong bar, pining after the wrong women. Consider going to places with chicks that are into the same kind of shit you’re into. Or if you’re just fucking boring or fat or smelly or whatever, consider working on that.

#3. Every man needs to drink whisky, goddamnit! Then again…

Men, stop drinking whiskey. Just stop it. You’re ruining it for those of us who really like whiskey. You’re driving up the price and creating shortages of the stuff. I know a shot of Knob Creek looks good with your perfectly parted hair, expensively groomed beard, and flannel fucking shirt, but just knock it off. In five years you’ll go back to drinking vodka sevens, but by then the damage will be done. So quit it.

#4. Every man needs to be willing and able to punch a motherfucker in his stupid goddamn face!

This is one rule that I’m going to stand by. Several years ago, I was drinking with a friend of mine who was going through some problems. She stepped outside for a smoke and a cry and this guy started fucking with her. I politely asked him to back off and he said I should “tell [my] cunt to shut up.” I punched him in his stupid goddamn face. Why? Because that’s my job. I’m not a violent man. I hate violence unless it’s in film, literary, or game form. But he needed his stupid goddamn face punched and I stand by punching him in his stupid goddamn face. Some people will disagree with me. They’ll say that a measure of a man isn’t his ability to punch a motherfucker in his stupid goddamn face. Those people are dead wrong. Treating some dipshit to a bit of chin music is a solemn duty (hehe, duty). Sure, you might get your ass kicked. You might end up with more than one guy kicking the hell out of you. But everyone needs to get their ass kicked at some point in their lives. It humbles you. And the motherfucker you punched in his stupid goddamn face will at least remember it. That is not to say you should just go around punching faces all willy-nilly. If you go around looking to punch faces, you run the risk of becoming the guy whose stupid goddamn face needs to be punched.

Above is a video of someone who needed to be punched in his stupid goddamn face. Sadly, it didn’t seem to have much effect. If you see this motherfucker, feel free to punch him in his stupid goddamn face.

Day 2: After receiving word that my electric shackle falsely reported two escape attempts, I was interrogated as to my whereabouts and how I might have tunneled to freedom. The prison guard said it was likely a faulty battery and that they would look at it on Saturday. I can only guess at the tortures that await me.

I was shipped off to the labor camp this morning where I had to endure eight grueling hours in front of a computer screen. The fan in my area was broken so I had only the industrial level AC to keep me cool with no breeze. My mind wandered back to the ride over here, where I would stare out the window of my vehicle and think about the innocence of the poor fools around me taking their freedom for granted. They’ll never know the torment of leaving their residence to work for a third of the day, only to return home to stay until the next morning. It’s almost lights out. They make me go to bed sometime between 21:00 hours and 01:30. Any later than that, and I’ll be a bit groggy tomorrow. 15 days and a wake up left. I can only hope I at least somewhat resemble the man I was when I’m finally released.